


Out Of The Darkness Comes The Dawn

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:40:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14853845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: A violent encounter with a mercenary unit has repercussions far beyond what anyone could have expected.  Can Craig Garrison find a way to deal with the resulting nightmares before they destroy him and the men he leads?  Will a fair dawn follow the darkness that engulfs him?





	1. "They're Mine, Murtry, All Of Them!"

**Author's Note:**

> Note: nightmares are indicated by inclusive ^ ^. Warnings: violence, intimacy. If it bothers you, any of that, please use your own discretion. However, this is a pivotal point in the storyline.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a joint mission with a mercenary team leads to a show-down, Garrison takes an unusual tack to give Meghada time to position herself for the kill. He reassured himself, {"it was a perfectly logical thing to do, really the only possible thing to do."}. No one questioned him on that; well, except for maybe himself when he thought back on it later.

The mission had been completed successfully, but not without its problems. They'd had to team up with another group for this one, and while it wasn't that rare to have to work with others, it was usually with a resistance group, or sometimes, another Special Forces team. Working with paid mercenaries was a new experience, and one Garrison was not eager to repeat. He didn't trust them; loyalty that could be bought with money could be outbid.

Luckily Lynn hadn't come on this mission, but Meghada had; the woman wasn't part of Special Forces anymore, and didn't report to HQ, but she had contacts in the valley they'd been sent to, and had offered to come along because of her relationship to the team. Happily, Craig thought, most of HQ was unaware either of her presence on this mission, or the depth of the relationship between the former contract agent and his team. Oh, there were rumors, but HQ was innundated with rumors of one sort or another.

He knew the British Major Richards knew; the two of them initially had pretty strong words over it, but it was understood now that it wasn't a topic for discussion, probably the best for the continued good health of the Major, her temper being what it was. Although teasing both parties about it in the beginning, the team now just accepted that the deadly redheaded Meghada, the Dragon, and Goniff, their easygoing small blond English pickpocket, had formed a strong bond; if he wasn't on a mission with the team or training with the guys or on lockdown, he was as much at the cottage as he was at the Mansion, or else she was at the Mansion herself. Garrison was careful not to share that fact with HQ, either; they'd have had a not-so-controlled meltdown!

This mercenary group had been difficult from the beginning, their leader a cold bully of a man, attempting to run roughshod over Garrison, attempting to take full control. Garrison hadn't allowed that; he had no trouble asserting his own authority, and this was a military mission, no matter what Murtry thought. Well, he couldn't have been a push-over, working with his group of cons, could he?

Murtry, the merc leader, was a burly man of middle years, balding, with an ever-scowling face like a angry bulldog. His second was a Cajun, dark and rangy, sullen and non-communicative; Murtry called him Swamp Rat; Garrison didn't know if it was a slur, or a nickname, but the Cajun didn't seem to react in anger when Murtry addressed him by it. Garrison cautioned his men that it might be best not to make too many friendly overtures to any of the six man crew; his guys looked at him like he was nuts. "Uh, right, Warden, don't go sticking our hands in the alligator's mouth, we got it, right guys?" Casino just had to smart off.

Meghada kept her distance, of course; except with his guys she always did. Earning the nickname 'Ice Queen' from other groups she had worked with, she just wasn't the warm and fuzzy type; she'd made an obvious exception for his team, but wasn't interested in expanding on that. The mercs didn't seem too interested in her; that was possibly due to orders from Murtry, who'd been incredulous that they'd actually bring a woman along on this mission, to the fact that they'd had R&R right before starting on this mission, or that she was always close to Garrison's team. In fact, the mercs pretty much ignored her totally, which suited Meghada and the guys just fine. She wanted this mission over and done with; this crew smelled really bad to her senses, and the sooner they were left behind, the better.

The trouble started the last night out; they were camped along the river under the cover of a stand of trees; their transport was expected sometime in the next twenty-four hours, and they were just biding their time, staying alert for trouble. 

Who knows what made Murtry think he could get away with it? Maybe he'd just had enough of having to share command with Garrison, maybe he was bored and wanted a fight, maybe he had an itch, maybe he was just batshit crazy. Anyway, after a unpleasant meal of cold rations, he'd leered over at Goniff and Chief.

"You're a lucky man, Garrison, I'll give ya that. Must be like Thanksgiving every night, with those two along."

Garrison looked up, puzzled, but now on guard; he didn't like the tone, he didn't like the expression of their erstwhile companion's face.

"I mean, ya just point a finger and decide on the menu, white meat or dark," and he gave a loud nasty laugh.

Garrison's team came to full alert, checking the location of the other team, being sure their weapons were at hand. They rarely ran into anyone who tried anything personal, but it did happen. This could get ugly real fast, and it did.

Meghada thought later that night, {"I just should have shot the bastard then and there, would have saved us a lot of trouble; Garrison would have pitched a fit though; he's a good man, capable, and a good leader for this crew, I know, but . . ."} but in her mind, he was slightly naive about the base qualities of most people. She, personally, trusted Clan members, most people on the Family and Friends list (most but not all), these guys and Lynn; that was pretty much it, and she'd found she hadn't been disappointed by her innate skepticism.

Murtry stood up, his gaze moving back and forth between the two men he had singled out, Goniff with his ashen blond hair, the smallest of the men, bronzed-skinned, black haired Chief, the youngest. He chuckled again, and motioned to Goniff, "you're the lucky one tonight. Come on, we're taking a little walk."

The Englishman's eyes flared, and he shot a glance over to Garrison. {"How do you want me to handle this? Sure as 'ell not by disappearing into the shadows with this idiot!"}

Garrison laid it out nice and slow, but very firm, clearly agreeing with the designation 'idiot' that Goniff had mentally given the man.

"My men aren't on anyone's menu, just back away."

Murtry gave another laugh, shrugged and walked over to talk to Swamp Rat. The team didn't know if he'd really meant what he was implying, and if he had truly backed down, or if more trouble was coming, but none of them would be off their guard til they parted ways tomorrow; in fact, if it wasn't already full dark, they'd have made their way to a separate camp tonight. They'd be posting sentries, anyway, but it was bad having to guard against trouble from without and from within. {"Never again,"} swore Garrison!

It was tense for the next couple of hours, but with no confrontations. It wasn't til everyone was getting ready to settle down and try to rest, if not to sleep, that Murtry made his move. He'd slipped into the shadows to the rear of where his men were grouped, and moved unseen around to the side where Goniff and Casino were standing, talking in low tones. Moving far more quickly than you'd expect a man of his size to move, he swung his fist at Casino, connecting and knocking him aside, while grabbing Goniff around the neck.

"Like I said, Blondie, we're taking a little walk!" 

Garrison and his team were on their feet, weapons in their hands; the merc team were facing them with their guns drawn. Garrison, seeing Meghada slide backwards into the shadow of the nearest tree, tried to buy her some time; their brief words had outlined the admittedly skimpy plan, ("I'll distract them, you get in position") but there was no time for more. She had to get into the right position, or this wouldn't work; they were trying to prevent a shootout, among other things. Gunfire could bring the enemy down on them and that just would NOT be good.

"I told you, my men aren't on anyone's menu. Let him go, now!"

"What, this one belongs to you special like?" Murtry leered. "You prove he's yours, I'll let him go. But you'd better do it now before I snap his neck!"

Garrison moved directly in front of Murtry, trying to keep the merc's attention focused on him, and away from any moving shadows. Garrison's jaw was clenched. He glanced at Goniff, and Goniff's blue eyes were fixed firmly on him; his face was starting to redden from the tight arm around his neck, and he was starting to have trouble breathing. He'd had no luck trying to pull the tight arm from around his neck; Murtry had arms like a pro wrestler, and outweighed him by a hell of a lot.

"Well?" taunted the man now known to the minds of everyone on Garrison's team as 'the idiot'; they all knew Meghada would make her move soon, and they'd just need to dodge the flying body parts when she did. The Dragon looked upon all of them as hers, part of the Friends and Family group, Goniff most of all.

Garrison looked again, as Murtry tightened his arm even more, leaving the Englishman clawing at the arm encircling his throat, choking and gasping for air. The Lieutenant's nostrils flared in anger, but said, "alright, but take your arm away first and step away," and as Murtry laughed and did so, Garrison stepped forward, narrowing his eyes at the smaller man, cautioning him to stillness, and leisurely leaned down to press a soft slow kiss on the wide mouth in front of him. Goniff's pale blue eyes couldn't have gotten much bigger, though he didn't pull away or make a sound, other than to inhale sharply. Garrison let inspiration take hold, Goniff following his lead. Sliding one hand behind the neck of his pickpocket, going back in at a different, deeper angle, he held the kiss until he had to break away to breathe, ending with a tiny nibble at the corner of that lower lip.

He smiled reassuringly into the wide eyes staring up at him. {"Another minute for Meghada to get the setup in place,"} thought Garrison, {"that's the only reason I expanded on the theme."}

Murtry gave a huge laugh, and said, "Okay, I get it, he's yours. I'll pick someone else."

Garrison snarled, "They're all mine, Murtry. You don't get any of them." 

Then the young woman in drab pants and shirt stood in the clearing, the merc group on her left, Garrison's men to the right, the tense trio immediately in front of her and refocused the attention on herself.

"He's right, Murtry. They're all his, all except me. What about me? Make a deal with you. I say you aren't man enough to take me. If you can, well and good, the guys won't interfere. Deal is though, if Garrison and his guys won't interfere, neither will your crew." She glanced over at the mercs.

"Cajun, you're second in command. Remember, if I take him down, the top job is open, if you can handle it. You don't have any chips in this game. Take it the way it's played, keep your guys under control, just see how it pans out," she suggested with a grim smile. {"Okay, so I'm lying through my teeth, sue me! This is just another con, play it to the hilt."}

Murtry was laughing so hard he was turning red in the face. He took his eyes away from Goniff, and Garrison hastily pulled him back to join the others. "They'll just stand there and watch, will they?" laughed Murtry. "Boy, they really are a bunch of gutless wonders, or maybe you've just really pissed them off! I can see that happening, ya know" he declared.

Garrison knew that no matter what Meghada had said, there was no way he or his men would stand and watch the girl be raped, maybe killed, but for right now, this was her play. He'd stopped underestimating her, about the time he started changing how he thought about a lot of other things.

"Okay, girl, you got a deal. Don't know why you're putting yourself out there like this, though, unless one of them is yours, too. Is that it, you and the Lieutenant go in on shares?" he snickered with a wide grin.

"Exactly so," she replied with a nod and a confident smile. They moved to the center, between the two groups, Murtry swaggering, making mock grabs for her, catching at his crotch in open promise, still laughing and glancing over at Garrison's group. In one long move, he tore her shirt open, leaving it hanging open from top to bottom, her bare skin showing clearly in the moonlight. She wasn't particularly body shy, so having her full breasts exposed didn't fluster her the way the bully had thought it would. If anything, it would tempt Murtry to aim for them, drawing him in, bringing him within her reach.

Goniff had taken the opportunity of the confusion when he and Garrison rejoined the group to grab his gun and held it concealed at his side; Chief had his throwing knife ready. The others had their guns in their hands as well, but couldn't fire without causing a bloodbath, so they waited it out. Garrison risked an uneasy glimpse at his pickpocket; he seemed steady enough, though he'd seemed initially rattled by the kiss. He was over that now, but as close as he was to the girl, would he be able to keep it together enough to let this play out?

Chief didn't have any doubts; sometimes he thought only Goniff and himself saw her the way she really was, had the confidence in her that knowledge brought. Neither would hesitate to kill for her, neither would they show disrespect for her by interfering in her move. If it went bad, then all bets were off, but til then, they'd wait, watch, remember to dodge if anything came flying their way.

Meghada was never one for dragging things out, at least, not on the job; she let the blowhard move into her reach. She spread her fingers, hands raised high, thrusting her forearms up, as if to push him away, and simultaneously released the catch on her wide bracelets, freeing the stiletto knives concealed within each. They were double-jointed, locking into place, forming blades of five inches of hardened steel. Both blades entered his heart; he stared down in disbelief, and collapsed at her feet facedown.

After a moment of shock, the Cajun moved in slowly, turning the big man over on his back; he looked at the woman, considering, then nodded, 'deal's a deal. We're good." When a protest started in his group, he quickly took control, "I said it's done. Drag him over there, to the side, and settle down." He nodded at Garrison, again at Meghada, and proceeded to stand sentry between his men and Garrison and his crew, as Actor did on their side.

Goniff and Meghada they gathered into the center of the group, out of view of the mercs.

"If you ever do anything like that again, I'll . . ."

"What, buy me a drink at the pub?" she softly smirked over at her blond Englishman, both of them knowing she'd do exactly the same if the need arose. He just shook his head, squeezing his eyes tight, and pulled her close, putting his forehead to hers, then sighed and pulled her shirt together, crossing the ends and tucking them into the top of her slacks. As they leaned into each other, Garrison and the guys stared for a moment, then quickly looked away.

Garrison found the current picture endearing, but one best not repeated while on a mission! For some reason, he found it . . . disturbing, maybe, though he wasn't sure that was the right word, moving restlessly in place. Well, he'd found the whole evening more than a little disturbing.

They left the body laying there when they left the next day; neither group cared enough to spend the energy burying him


	2. Sweet Dreams and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nightmares had started long before the episode with that mercenary group. Now, though, the intensity increased along with the frequency til a decent night's sleep was only a pipedream. And as for sweet dreams . . .

A month had passed since the joint mission. Garrison had often been troubled by bad dreams after a mission, but nothing like the ones he'd been having. Though some of them he couldn't even call bad dreams, in fact, they were quite pleasant, quite satisfying. He remembered the warmth of another body, soft kisses, sweet sighs, urgent moans, culminating in a shattering release, then lingering caresses. He'd roll away, feeling total contentment, then look back to smile at his companion. No, the troubling part was when he realized he was looking down into pale blue eyes, at tousled blond hair, a wide expressive mouth smiling back at him. Each time, he'd come awake with a start, damp with sweat, breathing heavy; it was even more disconcerting to find evidence that he'd found the dream satisfying in more than one way.

He tried to put it out of his mind, and pretty well succeeded, well, until the next dream came along. The dreams seemed to be interspersed with pretty vivid nightmares, but he was increasingly unsure which left him more unsettled.

He was relieved that his daytime relationship with Goniff and the guys hadn't seemed to have changed, other than perhaps a tendency to smile a little more indulgently when the little pickpocket pulled one of his pranks. The interaction on the missions was just as usual, no problem there. The knowledge of and frequent reminders of the relationship between Meghada and the blond Englishman didn't bother him at all, so that meant there wasn't anything else going on, didn't it? Just some strange dreams, they'd pass.


	3. A Living Nightmare Unfolds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unlikely invitation, a deadly ambush, and a reasonably uneventful day at the Mansion turns into a violent nightmare for Goniff and the entire team.

The day started out in a flurry; Craig had a new batch of intelligence reports delivered to him that he needed to work on. Sergeant Major had the guys out on the firing range; Garrison took them over the obstacle course, twice in fact, since they goofed around so much on the first round, he got annoyed and really yelled, making them "do it again, and do it right this time!". A quick lunch, just soup and sandwiches since Lynn had gone to London on business before dawn that morning taking Meghada with her. The redhead needed 'supplies', which could mean anything from bourbon to explosives to some new knife designed by her Clan's favorite metalsmith; mostly Garrison tried not to inquire too closely - she usually answered him truthfully, and he usually found her answers way too disturbing. With her, sometimes less information was just better.

By late afternoon, Goniff had headed over to the cottage to do a couple of things in Meghada's absence; Garrison and the other three cons were in the Common Room, doing their usual. Actor was reading, Garrison and Chief at the chess board, and Casino taking a casual run at a game of solitaire; he wasn't finding it nearly as much fun as he did watching the little Limey play, with Casino standing off to the side heckling him.

While making a trip back to office to pull out the map and intelligence reports he'd been trying to make some sense of, the phone rang and Garrison picked it up.

"Lieutenant, could you take a run over to the cottage?" It was Goniff, his voice sounding hesitant and strained.

Garrison frowned, "What's up, I was just getting ready to get back to those reports?"

The voice on the line was husky, and dropped lower, enticing, inviting. "Just thought, with Meghada gone over to her sister's for the night. . . There's a new bottle I don't think has been opened yet, a tin of those good ginger snaps in the cupboard, and well, we don't get a lot of time without the others around. Seemed like a good idea. Please, Craig?" The voice had gone almost to pleading.

Garrison's mind was whirling, latching onto this invitation; this was incomprehensible; no matter what was happening in his dreams, this conversation just had no place in reality. Then he shook himself back to his senses as he picked up on what else was wrong with that invitation: Meghada hadn't gone visiting family, she was with Lynn in London for a couple of days, he and Goniff weren't drinking buddies, and while the woman loved gingersnaps (the only sweets she seemed to fancy) and always tried to keep them on hand, neither he nor Goniff favored them, not as sharp as she tended to make them anyway; and never had Goniff called him by his first name!

He made up his mind. "Yeah, actually that sounds like a good idea," he said, trying to keep his voice smooth, affectionate, matching the tone in his pickpocket's. "Be there in just a little bit."

He headed back upstairs, looked around and caught Actor's eye and motioned him over.

"I think there's trouble at the cottage, just got a call from Goniff asking me to come over." Here, Garrison hesitated, then dashed ahead; he'd just have to trust Actor. "I could be wrong and if I am, if I really misread that phone call, then this could be embarrassing for Goniff, and for me, and I don't want that, but if it is trouble. . . ".

Garrison looked up into Actor's brown eyes, not really knowing how to explain. But he knew Actor would do what he could to help, whatever the situation might be. Quickly gathering the others, telling them there might be trouble, but it might just be a prank, they set out. Everyone except Garrison doubted there was trouble; good grief, they were home! And Lord knows the little Limey had played more than his fair share of pranks on them! Still, memories of Private Miggs and his family crept in, making them just a little uneasy.

The plan was for the others to hop out at the curve before the lane reached the cottage, coming in on foot, while Garrison drove the jeep straight to the side garden gate.

 

Earlier Goniff had made his leisurely way to the cottage; the day had been glorious, he knew Meghada would be sorry to have missed the opportunity to work in her garden; it'd rained so much recently she'd not had much chance to be outside. He intended to inventory the stores in the third cottage, see what they'd need with the next shipment; the inside plants would need tending as well, and while he didn't quite see the need for having plants indoors when she had a whole bloomin' garden outside, not to mention the kitchen garden and the forest beyond, still he knew she'd be sad if any of them faded. Wouldn't take him but a bit, and he liked doing little things that pleased her; his pay was meager, and most went back to his Mum and Aunt, so other than buying her a drink now and again, there wasn't much he could offer, he thought, not that she seemed to expect more. Seemed like she was just content with him, which he was sure he'd never understand, but was starting to accept.

As he walked in thru the back door, he was stunned by a blow to the face. Hitting the counter on the way down, he found himself flat on the floor where he found himself receiving a hard boot to the rib cage, followed by a couple more to his stomach. {"What the 'ell?"} he wondered, shocked.

He was hauled to his feet and slammed into a chair, and another blow split his lip, leaving blood trickling down his chin. Dazed, trying to see who his attacker was, but all he could see was a blur at first. Then, voices, plural; {"so",} he thought, {"more than one."}

Shaking his head to clear it, he looked up, eyes widening as he recognized three of the mercs from their joint venture. Not the Cajun, not the short one he thought had been called Whitey, but the other three; he'd never gotten their names, not that it'd mattered. The taller one, the others were calling him Smitty, directed the others to tie him to the chair; although he tried to struggle, he was overpowered and his arms tied behind him to the chair back. They started to tie his legs together in front of him, but Smitty laughed and said, "no, not that way. Spread him wide, tie his ankles to the chair legs at the sides." That didn't sound particularly good, thought Goniff. He wondered if the Cajun, the new leader, was in the next room; in his opinion the Cajun was the only halfway sane one out of that lot, and he thought his chances would be a lot better with him around.

"Where's Garrison? Still up at that big house? Bet he is. Now here's what's going to happen, pretty boy. You're going to call him, invite him down here for a little one on one, if you know what I mean. You're not going to give him any idea we're here, right," Smitty directed, giving the Englishman another hard blow across the face.

"It's all your fault, yours, his, that stupid bitch's fault; it's all gone to hell, you know. Murtry might have had his faults, but he made us money, and let us have some fun. When you all put the Swamp Rat in charge, he got all moralistic on us; can't take that job, can't take this job, can't have that pretty little girl to play with, got to kill quick, not taking time to really enjoy it anymore. Just wasn't the same, you know, and you are going to pay for screwing it all up, just like Swamp Rat and Whitey paid for turning over like that! Was just waiting for the first time one of you drifted off by yourself; that's the way we're going to do this, one at a time; except for you and the Lieutenant, you we'll do together; figure that's how you like things, isn't it?" And he laughed again, a weird sound you'd expect more from a hyena than a human.

{"Coo,"} thought Goniff, {"a few matches short of a box, 'e is."}

The other two were looking slightly amused. Smitty snarled, "Cope, you take a look around, see what's good to take with us. Bobby, see what they have to drink; I could use a belt." Smitty walked over and grabbed the phone, slamming it down on the table. "What's the number, blondie, I'll dial it for you since you're all, uh, tied up," he snickered.

Goniff knew his own chances weren't any good, but he had to warn the Warden and the guys; otherwise, they'd get taken one by one. By the time Meghada got back, enough would have happened to put her on guard; it would be far too late for him, but she should have enough warning that she'd be alright.

When the Lieutenant came on the line, Goniff placed the invitation, desperately trying to frame it in a way that would sound okay to the lunatic holding the receiver, but letting Garrison know it was a setup. He didn't know about Garrison's nighttime wanderings, so he'd have been surprised to know the Lieutenant was at first caught up by what his words seemed to offer. If he had known, he'd have thought of something else, something that wouldn't possibly lead the Warden into the trap Goniff was so desperately trying to spring before he stepped into it. Smitty had his ear right up at the receiver, so he grinned in anticipation when he heard Garrison's answer.

"Okay, guys, looks like it's a go; he should be here in a bit. Now, how do we amuse ourselves in the meantime," he said, looking over at Goniff and licking his lips. Goniff shuddered, he knew it was going to seem like a very long time til help arrived; at least, hopefully arrived. Smitty was interrupted when Bobby clunked a bottle of Scotch onto the table, dumping three glasses down as well.

"Damn, Bobby, show some manners, get another glass for our host here." And Bobby grinned and got another glass, filling all four from the bottle of dark liquor.

Cope, in the meantime, had finished his wandering thru the small cottage, "got some small shit, nothing much, but there's a wallsafe behind a picture in the hallway; wonder what someone like her'd have that had to be kept in a safe," he mused with a greedy look.

"Well, we'll just have to see, won't we? What's the combination, eh? Come on, give."

Goniff stalled for time, hoping they'd distract themselves with the safe, "don't know the combination," he lied. "I'm a 'andy bedmate, not her ruddy 'usband, you know! She'd not trust the likes a me with her valuables; she ain't stupid!"

Smitty slapped him again for smarting off, went down the hall to check out the safe. It didn't take them long to get it open; Bobby seemed rather talented along those lines.

{"Still, it burned up some of the time,"} Goniff told himself, {"that's all to the good. Would have preferred it took them awhile longer though,"} he shuddered, as Smitty came back in the room, dumping the bills and notes from the safe on the table.

The three mercs all took a long pull at their drinks, Smitty having Cope hold one glass up for Goniff to drink. He tried to pull his head away, but Cope took hold of his jaw and half poured the drink into his mouth; the liquor burned like fire on his busted lip. He gave in, swallowing, thinking the liquor might help him get through what he saw coming.

"Now, then. How to pass the time til the good Lieutenant arrives? Let's see".

Smitty yanked open the khaki tunic, pulled out a long knife, twisting it round and round in front of the Englishman's face. Then he drew it slowly down from the base of Goniff's throat to the waist of his pants, cutting thru his undershirt, well into his skin, leaving a deep gash top to bottom, blood streaming down. Goniff gasped, crying out, from the shock, the sudden pain, trying to pull away from the knife.

Cope leaned forward, eagerly, pulling the fabric to the sides, to get a better view. "Boy, looks real pretty against that nice pale skin of his, don't it?" Cope had always liked blood, how it looked, how it smelled, how it tasted. He hoped Smitty would let him get a good taste this time; sometimes, he didn't, just to show who was the boss.

Bobby had no interest in the blood, but he knew where Smitty was headed, and he grinned to himself in anticipation.

Cope let out a little whine, and Smitty looked over at him and laughed. Indulgently he said, "okay, but just a little," and as Goniff stiffened first in surprise, then with the added pain, Cope knelt in front of him, lapping roughly up the center of his body, taking in as much of the flowing blood as he could before Smitty said, "enough." When Cope didn't pull back, Smitty grabbed him by the nape of his neck and jerked him back, "I said enough!" Cope looked his resentment, but he knew Smitty was the stronger, so he moved back, crouching, licking his lips free of the last traces. 

"Bobby, let's see what else he's got, maybe figure out why that fancy Lieutenant and the bitch figure he's so special he's worth fighting for." Bobby watched eagerly as Smitty reached out and undid the fastenings on the khaki pants, pulling them open. Pale blond hair curled in the opening, and Smitty reached in to pull him free. "Not so much a show-er, maybe he's a grow-er", Smitty snarked; "let's see, shall we?"

When some rough handling failed in their attempts to arouse him, Goniff thinking, {"really are crazy to think that'd work; surprised I'm not drawn up to a nubbin at this rate!"},Bobby laughed and said, "hey Smitty, there's another way; saw Murtry use it on the stubborn ones. They didn't always live thru it, mind you, but worked as often as not on the ones that did."

With that, he reached out and grabbed Goniff roughly by the throat, pressing hard on the arteries; Goniff writhed in pain, starting to see black spots in front of his eyes, but to his horror, started to feel himself become erect. Smitty had Bobby stop before Goniff totally passed out, and the two of them gazing down at him appraisingly. "Yeah, he's a grow-er, for sure. Those two aren't so dim as we'd thought, eh?" Cope was watching, but with only a vague interest; this didn't excite him nearly so much as the blood, but he knew Smitty; there'd be more opportunities for his special treat, later.

Goniff would have given anything for a clock on the wall, somehow to figure how much time had passed, how much would have to pass before the Lieutenant arrived. {"Please, please let him have understood it's all gone pear-shaped,"} he pleaded silently. {"Don't let him get caught by these lunatics too!"} His feelings for the Warden were beyond complicated, and he made a real effort not to try and understand them; he liked things simple, though his life was certainly not turning out that way, but he knew that the Warden didn't ever deserve something like this happening to him. His expression had become withdrawn; his eyes no longer focused on the trio in front of him. He had developed one hell of a headache, too, though why that should bother him with everything else going on, he couldn't understand. 

Smitty flicked him between the eyebrows with a hard finger, "hey, pay attention; are you getting bored? We'll have to fix that, won't we?" He moved the knife forward, tracing the long gash in the pale chest, making it just a hair deeper; then, at the end of the gash, proceeded to very slowly extend it down further and further, more shallow now, figuring he'd have fun deeping the cut soon, down the flat stomach, down thru the blond curls and past, grinning all the while. Before he could get more than an inch or so along Goniff's rapidly deflating erection, the jeep pulled up alongside.

"Looks like we'll have to finish this later," he panted, "wonder if that bitch'd like us to leave her a souvenir on the table, what da ya think?" He motioned the two mercs to places along side the door, growling at Cope, as the man, overcome with blood lust, bent to take just one more long swipe, then another with his tongue, this time low, where the new cut had been made. "Get with the program, enough time for that, and more, later!"


	4. All Out Of Mercy Today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lieutenant Craig Garrison finds that he has emotions aplenty ready to well to the surface: guilt, remorse, anxiety, and a few others. The one thing he found himself in short supply of? Mercy.

Garrison slowly got out of the jeep, pausing to stretch, giving his men more time to get in position. He had driven as slowly as he reasonably could on that last stretch, but couldn't slow to a crawl for fear someone might be on watch and figure out there was a problem. He meandered up to the garden gate and entered, looking around at the wildly abundant garden to the side. Yes, now he could see Casino, where they'd planned for him to be, heard the dove call that told him Chief was set as well; he knew Actor would be around to the front by now...

Inside, the three mercs were tense with eager anticipation, looking forward to more fun, not expecting any real trouble overpowering the young blond Lieutenant coming toward them. Only Cope had a knife in his hand, Smitty having dropped his on the table; he and Bobby would be relying on their fists.

>p>Goniff was panting, trying to gain enough breath to yell a warning. {"But should I try to yell and warn him, or just pray he has a plan? If he does, might just monkey wrench it if I do anything at all."} Smitty put paid to that question by roughly forcing his mouth open and jamming a wadded dish cloth deep, so deep the Englishman knew if help didn't come soon, he might easily choke to death.

A loud crash by Actor as he forced in the front door momentarily startled and distracted the men; Garrison took the opportunity to shove open the kitchen door and move inside, as simultaneously Chief moved in from the bedroom, where he'd entered thru the window. Casino followed Garrison thru the door, and after a brief incredulous look at the picture of their friend, bound and gagged, clothes gaping, bleeding in the chair, the men proceeded to take down the mercs.

Cope, with the knife and the blood smeared over his mouth and chin, was an easy decision; Casino moved in quick and broke his neck. Smitty was faced with Garrison, and the two were battling it out with their fists. Bobby was boxed into a corner, and with a weaseling whine put up his hands in surrender; Chief glanced back over at Goniff, and without a change in the cold expression on his face, sent his knife into Bobby's heart. Actor couldn't get near Goniff to help, the battle between Smitty and Garrison was rolling back and forth across the kitchen blocking the way. Finally, Garrison got a good grip and knew he had the other man at his mercy. Garrison also remembered what he'd seen as he came thru the door and decided he was all out of mercy for the day, forcing Smitty backwards until he heard his neck snap. Coldly he checked the pulse, just to be sure, then stepped back. 

For just a moment they were caught up in what had just happened, but only for a moment; they turned as one to the man struggling frantically against his bonds, now choking on the rough gag, face starting to darken with lack of oxygen. Actor snatched out the cloth, supporting him carefully as he gagged repeatedly and then started coughing, gasping trying to draw air into his tortured lungs. Chief cut the bindings, easing his strained limbs back into a more normal position, and the two gently moved him back away from the table, to the big chair in the living area, where they could tend him more easily.

In response to barked instructions from Actor, Casino poured water from the kettle into a clean bowl and pulled clean cloths from the rack by the window, Chief ran to get the med kit he knew Meghada kept in the pantry. Gently they cleaned the blood away, wincing at the long, deep cut along his center, knowing that stitches were going to be needed for much of its length. Luckily the med kit was fully stocked, antiseptic, sutures, sulfa, penicillin to prevent possible infection, morphine for the initial pain and shock; they'd throw it in the jeep when they left.

Garrison sat back on his heels and took stock; the appalling bleeding gash had taken their immediate attention, obviously, but now he took in the bruised face and torn lip, the red and roughened skin along the ribs and stomach, the deep bruises on his neck, indicating more damage. He cursed himself, now, as well as the three predators. In the camp that night, he had signaled Meghada to deal with Murtry and let the others alone, if possible. Now, if he could have gone back, he'd have seen that none of the merc crew had walked away.

Goniff was still dazed, panting, wincing as Actor tended his hurts. The withdrawn look on the Warden's face worried him; had he done something wrong, messed up the Warden's plan somehow? He didn't remember, even though he tried; his thoughts were thick, like syrup, and his words just as thick as he tried to speak, tried to say "Sorry". He failed in his attempt to do either, as he faded into unconsciousness. 

"What'll we do with the bodies, Warden?" Chief asked, not really caring much, but knowing they couldn't just leave them there; they were smelling bad now, they wouldn't get any better, and they couldn't just leave them for Meghada to deal with.

"Casino, you and Chief drag them to the back of the garden, where they can't be seen from the gate. We'll deal with them later."

By the time they had come back, Actor had determined he had done what he could here, that they needed to get their friend back to the Mansion. They didn't waste any time at the cottage; it was a shambles, the kitchen mostly, but things had been tossed here and there throughout the small home. That, too, was something that could wait for another time. Hopefully they could get started on it before Meghada came home tomorrow evening; if not, Garrison knew she'd understand. She'd really have their heads if they put the cleanup job ahead of taking care of Goniff, no one had any doubt, and rightfully so.


	5. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'd only been gone for one full day, just from one morning to the next. Just how much trouble could the guys have gotten into in that short period of time in the small village of Brandonshire? Lynn and Meghada debate that question on their way back from London, but even knowing the guys as well as they did, they'd never have been able to guess just how bad things had gotten. While Garrison gets a good scolding out of it all, it's hardly for what he's anticipating, and Casino gets some amusement from the sheer practicality exhibited by the Dragon. Some healing, some wistful thinking, some plans for the future; they are all hoping for the best, but knowing one thing for sure - they would NOT be working with another merc team ever again!

Meghada and Lynn had finished early; Lynn's business had actually run smoothly for once, and Meghada's order for new weaponry and strings for her guitar (both essentials as far as she was concerned) had been waiting for them at her brother's flat, as well as several packages from home, including fresh cheeses and half a smoked ham for the team, and ingredients for those special oatmeal cookies with walnuts that Goniff had been craving, plus a decent case of bourbon for the cottage, with a bottle reserved for Garrison so he could stop drinking whatever the heck was in that bottle that he kept claiming was bourbon.

That meant they could get home early morning, if they left before dawn, and they were both anxious to get back, especially Meghada; she'd developed a nasty headache during the prior afternoon, and had not slept at all well the night before for that reason, still felt loggy and hungover this morning. She'd feel better when she got home, she was sure of it.

Lynn grinned over as she took the wheel, "wonder what kind of trouble they managed to get in this time."

"Maybe none, we were only gone from one morning to the next, maybe we'll find everything just as we left it."

"Or, we may find they've been carousing, and we have to pick them up and pour them into their beds," Lynn laughed, knowing that at least her brother wouldn't be among them. He tended to take himself and his position more seriously than she considered totally necessary, and getting drunk in front of his team just wasn't something he'd be inclined to do.

Lynn had driven, so they went to the cottage first. Unloading the packages, they went in thru the garden gate, when Meghada threw out her arm, holding the other woman back.

{"Blood, blood and worse, death"}, she realized; motioning Lynn to stay by the gate, she drew her knife and followed the smell to the corner where her garden met the forest. Gazing with wide eyes at the three heaped bodies, inhaling sharply as she recognized one of them, she backed away and at a sprint headed to the kitchen door. Lynn joined her, her own revolver in her hand by now.

Meghada pushed open the door slowly, not sensing anyone inside. The scene was a total shambles. Basin with red water, blood soaked rags heaped beside it. Kitchen floor, kitchen chair stained with blood. Broken bottle of Scotch, broken glasses. The other chair had been overturned and broken, smashed crockery, pictures hanging crooked on the wall. The safe door hung open; the money that had been inside, American dollars, British pounds strewn across the floor. In the bedroom, drawers had been wrenched out of their frames, and bedcovers hanging askew. More blood leading into the living area, with the blue armchair liberally spotted.

"What the . . .?" breathed Meghada, looking at Lynn sick with apprehension. They dropped the packages on the bed and dashed back to the car, and raced to the Mansion, neither woman taking a full breath til they got there. As they screeched the car to a halt at the side door and started to run in, Meghada remembered her training, bringing them both to a halt.

"No, slow down. We don't know what happened, what might be waiting inside. We go in just like on a mission into unknown territory; it'll only take a bit more time, and we'll do more good staying in one piece."

They had only made it into the kitchen, moving cautiously into the pantry hall, when they heard Actor's voice, and Lynn called out to him. He strode forward to meet them; the sight of the tall Italian was reassuring, until they got a good look at his drawn face, his strained eyes. He nodded at Lynn, and turned to Meghada with a strange reluctance; her blood ran cold. She waited for him to speak, but it seemed a lifetime til he pulled the words together. 

"He is alright. That is, he will BE alright. The way you came in, I would assume you stopped at the cottage first. I am sorry for the mess, inside and out, but it was imperative we get him back here immediately." Meghada had no doubts about who 'he' was; she took a deep breath and steeled herself for what was coming. Actor called out, his voice reaching the men above, and Chief appeared at the bannister above, motioning them to come up. Actor sent them on; he'd come down for more ice, and quickly pulled the waiting packs from the freezer before swiftly making his way up the stairs.

The women had followed Chief to Craig's bedroom, Casino and Garrison already inside. The small Englishman looked even smaller against the raised pillows, his pallor matching the white sheets, his breathing shallow and uneven. Lynn reached out to check his pulse, Meghada moving to brush his hair back off his forehead, fingers trembling. She turned to Garrison, her eyes demanding an answer, now! Actor came in, pulling the covers aside, moving to place the ice packs against the worst of the damage. They'd not bothered with a nightshirt, his modesty be damned; it would only get in the way of caring for him for now. The blood speckled line of stitches stretched forever.

"Dear God," gasped Lynn, "he's slit open like a fish!"

Meghada felt sick; she'd seen him hurt before, coming back from missions bruised and battered, sometimes with the odd bullet or knife wound, that time he came out the worse for a round on the obstacle course, that obscene ordeal with the Miggs family; this, though, this was beyond anything she'd seen on his familiar body, and she stood still in shock. Again, her gaze rounded to Garrison, now even more urgently. "Tell me!".

Actor motioned for everyone to leave; reluctantly they did, moving into the Common Room. Casino poured a drink for everyone; it was his second of the morning, and he figured it wouldn't be his last. Except for leaving out anything about his dreams and his subsequent initial bewilderment at the strangely worded invitation, Garrison recounted the story, just saying it was obvious Goniff had been trying to give him a warning. He included what they'd been able to learn from Goniff when he'd regained consciousness, that they were all to be targeted, he was just the first they'd caught out on his own, including the bit about the 'souvenier' to be left for Meghada.

"It was my fault," Garrison started, and the others stared at him as if he was insane. "Should have let you, we should have finished the whole lot that night," he said bitterly.

Meghada smiled at him, shaking her head over how much he had changed since she'd met him, for the better in her opinion, though HQ might not agree. "Craig, even the Clan elders acknowledge we can't just go about killing anyone we think MIGHT prove to be a problem in the future. Get started doing that, and the body count gets too big to cover. I agreed to let the others go, if they backed down. I don't have the gift of farseeing, though some of my people do; if I had, if I'd seen, yes, I'd have killed them then, whatever you might have wanted. But I didn't know, you didn't know. That we have to accept. And as for the what-if's, if I'd know what was coming, do you really think I'd have headed up to London yesterday? This isn't my fault, it's not yours, so let that go!"

She looked around at each of the men in the room, sighing deeply. She opened her mouth to speak, but Garrison cut her off, sharply, angrily, "and DON'T thank us!"

She frowned back at him fiercely. "And why would I thank you?? You don't thank family for taking care of family! You thank the Sweet Mother that family was available, that the outcome was as good as it was, you call healing down on he who was hurt, blessings on those who came to his aid, and all the curses available on those who sought to hurt one of your own, but you don't THANK those of your own family for acting as family should act!"

More calmly, she continued, "after you do all that, of course, you pull yourself together and clean up the mess. Speaking of which, did any of you have any specific plans for the three pieces of garbage in my garden? That new asparagus bed I had ready to plant could hold them, I'd think; just need to get them deep enough not to poison my plants or smell when I cultivate; long term, it'd probably improve the yield. The cottage can wait, well, except for getting rid of the blood before it starts to reek, but those bodies really need to be disposed of. And the foodstuffs we dumped on the bed need to be fetched." Meghada was back in form. Casino noted that she made no mention of gathering up the money from the floor; that just didn't figure as being of any importance to her.

Casino, Chief and Garrison left to take care of the basics at the cottage. {"In the asparagus bed?? Damn, I do like that woman!",} thought Casino, as they labored with shovels in the loosened soil.

Lynn told Actor to get some sleep; she knew he'd been awake since the previous morning. She followed the aristocratic Italian to see that he at least pretended to follow her instructions.

Meghada moved back to Goniff's room and moving a chair to his bedside, sat down. She stayed, silent, reassuring herself that he still lived, being there to reassure him once he woke. 

When he awoke, he saw her at his side. He reached out his hand for hers, and she moved to perch carefully on the edge of the bed. He gave a faint half-smile, telling her in a raspy voice, "'ad a good look earlier, seems I'll 'ave to disappoint you for awhile."

She made a small noise in the back of her throat. "You've never disappointed me, love, never, not in any way, and I doubt you ever will. I'm well satisfied just to know you're here." She bent down, kissed him ever so gently, and whispered something to him, and he let out a small chuckle, shaking his head at her slightly with a smile, before he drifted off to sleep again.

Garrison watched from the doorway, his eyes never leaving that familiar face now relaxed in sleep, and she turned and saw him. She smiled at him, seeing what he was just starting to acknowledge to himself.

"I know, I never understood it when it happened to me either. I never saw it coming. One minute he was just a face I saw in the village, then a friend, then somehow he'd moved so deep into my heart I knew he'd never leave. Some things, it's best not to try fighting, Craig; just accept what is in your own heart, and figure out how to make the best of it. By the way," she said as she rose and kissed his cheek in passing, "I'm not the jealous type, not with family anyway." He stared after her in shock, then slowly walked into Goniff's room and took his turn by the bed, waiting.

They took turns, the friends, over the next few days, watching over him and keeping him company. The bruises were healing, the ribs bruised but not cracked or broken, stomach sore, and the stitches! First the gash burned and ached, then as it healed, the stitches pulled and itched miserably. He was sturdy, though, stronger than you'd think, and soon was up trying to convince Garrison he was NOT fit for the firing range yet, never mind the obstacle course.

Garrison knew Goniff; if he was truly hurt too badly to do something, he was just as like not to say anything at all, just try to muster through. Garrison had had to be extra watchful on missions, after the first couple of times he'd been misled by the Cockney's will to persist, not to let them down. It was a matter of pride, however, to put off the return to normal as long as possible, so the griping and whining was a really good sign.

The cottage had been cleaned top to bottom, broken bits cleared away and replaced, money locked away in the safe. Still, Meghada wondered if Goniff would be comfortable here ever again. When she broached the subject, after he was almost well enough to be out and about again, he pondered it, then he shook his head at her, "it's a good place, set up the way you want, lots of good memories. Can't let one bad thing ruin it for us; just 'ave to add a few more good memories, is all," he smiled at her quietly.

"Maybe Craig can help with that?" she said with a little smile. His head jerked as he looked over at her, startled, apprehensive. Squinting at her out of one eye, he studied her face, trying to read her mind. Then, relaxing back into his chair, he gave her a rather shy, sad smile in return, "don't know; wouldn't mind, but it don't seem likely, now does it?"

"Just in case, I think I might fix up the middle cottage some, make it a bit more homey; might figure out how to join the two, give us some extra room with that stretch of space between too. Might be nice to have more than one comfortable private spot, you know," and she smiled at him serenely.

He just knew he was never going to have a simple life ever again; maybe he just wasn't cut out for one. Thinking on it, he wasn't sure that was such a bad thing. Lupan might have been right; a simple life just might be overrated.


	6. The Foretelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wasn't one of those born with the gift of foresight. Still, there were times when the Sweet Mother extended her hand when the need was great; now it was just a question of whether Craig Garrison could bring himself to accept the gift being offered to him. Accept and understand and learn to fight his demons before they destroyed him and all those he cared about.

It was late when Meghada heard the sound of the jeep, then footsteps outside. Carefully, trying not to awaken the man asleep at her side, she slid out of the bed and, putting on her long robe, made her way to the kitchen door. Opening it she found, as she'd half expected, Craig Garrison sitting on the small bench leading to the garden. She'd hoped he would come, though not necessarily in the middle of the night, but he was a man trained from childhood not to admit weakness, not to ask for help. She hadn't know how long it might be before he came seeking aid, and was thankful that it was so soon after the foretelling.

The Foretelling

Two nights ago, she had been at the Mansion. It was a subdued evening, the last Mission had not gone well; none of the guys would talk about what had happened, and even lying in her arms late at night, her own lover had muttered and frowned in troubled sleep. Garrison was withdrawn, losing himself in thought, losing track of the book he was supposedly reading, She though he might have held it upside down for all the good he was getting from it, and Actor might as well have been in Italy for all the attention he paid to the activities in the room. Chief and Casino were bickering, but softly, without heat, just a way to pass time. She had been sitting on the arm of Goniff's chair, watching him absently play solitaire in a manner she was sure wasn't in any rule book, {"in which version can you play a red queen on a red four??"}

Something caught her eye, and she got up to make her way to the fireplace. There, in the flames . . . slowly she sat cross legged on the hearth rug, so close the heat was scorching her face, staring at the foretelling that had come to her. 

"Meghada?" Goniff said, inquiringly, realizing she'd left his side, then more loudly, "Meghada??" when he saw what she was doing. His words got the attention of the others, and they in turned stared at the young woman staring so intently into the flames. As they watched she started speaking low, in a language none of the men recognized, understood. Chief watched in disbelief and got up to stand closer, but not close enough to touch the rug she sat upon. When she reached out her hand, closer, closer, then into the flames, he stopped the others when they would have gone forward to pull her away.

"No, you can't interfere. This is spirit stuff; she could get hurt if you touch her."

Actor burst in, angrily, "and the fire won't hurt her?" though he had uneasy memories of the last time she'd used fire for her own purposes.

"Most likely 'e's right," Goniff swallowed heavily, said in an uneasy voice, "best leave 'er be; she usually has a good reason for what she does; 'er people, they've got their own ways, ya know." {"Don't mean those ways might not be ruddy strange, ta my mind, but she mostly knows what she's about."}

Heaving a deep sigh, she pulled back her hand, sat back, and closed her eyes, gathering the words she would need. When she opened them again, she turned her head slowly, seeking out the man the foretelling had been for. The Lieutenant stood apart from the others, but they were all gathered close to where she sat, looking at her with deep concern.

"Are you alright, then, luv?" the blond Englishman asked in a low voice.

She couldn't reply, could only gaze directly at Garrison, and then spoke to him, giving him the message that had been granted, hoping he could accept that gift:

"You sit beside the campfire in the night, and they surround you like wild beasts, waiting to rend you. One by one they come, tearing away pieces of your spirit, replacing them with their own darkness. You have forgotten how to fight them, how to defend yourself; you cry out in pain as they devour you, but do not raise your hand to drive them away. All the brightness of your spirit is being displaced with the darkness they leave behind. If you continue to do nothing, that which you fear most will come to pass; all will be lost, and you will be left alone with nothing but the darkness. You must learn how to fight them, to overcome them. Listen, shield brother, and take heed."

She lowered her head, then with a shake, came back to herself, to see everyone looking at her like she'd sprouted horns.

"What? What are you all looking at?"

As Chief told her of what had happened, she too was shaken, but with wonder; she'd never had the gift of foreseeing. She knew, though, that at times the visions could come to one not born with the talent, at the will of the Mother. She explained that, only hoping that this message would be heard, and that the uncanny sight had not given the men a distaste for her. Not all could accept, she knew. {"Things like this have caused more than one 'witch' to burn, and caused more than one man to turn away from loving arms in disgust."} She did not rest easy til the night proved that the last, at least, was something she did not have to fear.


	7. "The Nightmares Devour Me and Darkness Awaits"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nightmares have increased, become far more vivid, to the point Craig Garrison can no longer discern what is nightmare and what is reality. Night after night he witnesses tragedy, and finds himself being dragged under by the guilt he is left with. Day after day, his guilt and his growing exhaustion affect his performance. When will he finally give in and accept the help that was offered?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^ ^ Indicated beginning and end of a nightmare. None are pleasant, some highly unpleasant - be forewarned.

She'd left earlier, having pretty well stunned them all with that decidedly strange foretelling, or psychoanalysis, or fire-reading, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it.

{"At least she only touched on the nightmares, not the other,"} the young Lieutenant had thought to himself, cringing at what the guys, particularly what Goniff would have thought about those dreams that had visited him recently. Certainly not nightmares, quite the opposite, but still, nothing he wanted anyone to know about.

With what had happened, the guys had been subdued as they put the cards, the glasses away, and Garrison hadn't said anything other than 'good night' as he made his way down the hall to his solitary bedroom. He wondered if they'd laugh if he told them how much he wanted to just grab a blanket, settle down in that Dorm with them, even on the floor if he had to, just to have someone around so he wasn't so alone in the dark with the nightmares. THEY had someone to wake them when the nightmares hit; he'd never realized how much he envied that.

{"Yeah, they would laugh for sure! Damn it, Garrison! Get a grip! You're the one supposed to be in charge. You'll screw up any respect they might have for you with a stupid stunt like that! And besides, what if it's not the nightmares, but the other; yeah, that'd really gain their respect!"} He had to stay in control, stay in charge; that was his responsibility.

{"Lord, I'm so tired of always being the one in charge, being the one in control!"} He was an officer; he knew he shouldn't feel that way; hell, he'd been trained to accept that responsibility, master that air of authority. It helped offset what might have been a considered a drawback - his age. Except for Chief, he was the youngest of the men, though his air of authority, his firm demand for obedience blurred that distinction heavily. He knew Actor was well aware of that age difference, though the conman was careful to treat Garrison with serious courtesy. Casino and Goniff, they seemed rather oblivious, and that's how Garrison wanted to keep it. He undressed in the dark, slipped between the covers, tried to will sleep to come, tried to will away the nightmares that seemed to haunt him nightly now.

His breathing slowed, became deeper as at least the first of his efforts came to fruition. Some part of him that had remained tense, on guard, relaxed, and the shadows found an opening, and . . . 

^He was dancing with a beautiful blonde, a lovely waltz was playing, there were people all around enjoying themselves. HE was enjoying himself, thinking it was about time he had some time to himself. Mission after mission on the war front, one bit of nonsense and mischief after the other on the home front. They laughed at him, he knew that, at his gullibility, his inability to keep them in line like the soldiers they should be, needed to be. He had long had a sneaky suspicion that his team, that ill-matched group of men he'd been put in charge of, had been up to no-good even during their missions, though he had no out and out proof of that. But here? Oh, he had proof of that now, all right, and would be dealing with them later; his report was already written and on its way to HQ with his final recommendations. They'd see who had the last laugh. However, for right now, he finally had some time for himself, free of the responsibility for those trouble-makers. He smiled into the pale blue eyes (somehow so familiar, those eyes) looking up at him and let the music take him into another wide swing around the room.

The scene shifted in his mind, a different room, now the men mostly in military uniform, though the ladies were still in their glittering gowns. The band was playing something more modern, Glen Miller perhaps, and he was dancing with a lovely brown-haired woman; odd that her eyes were that same pale blue as the blonde's from the other night. It was an unusual shade, seemed to remind him of someone else. He shook his head in annoyance at himself, brought himself back to the moment at hand, the warm and willing woman in his arms.

He'd be headed back to the Mansion in the morning, his new team waiting for him. Proper soldiers they were, this new group; no more nonsense about using cons for the important work he had to deal with. Now they could get on with the job, never mind the monkey business.

His mind shifted momentarily to the stunned expressions on their faces - Actor, Chief, Casino, Goniff - as they'd been herded away by that contingent of guards. He still heard their protests, their voices, their apprehension - especially on the faces of Chief and Goniff, apprehension, a glimpse of fear quickly hidden behind newly-shuttered eyes, eyes like he'd seen when they first came to the Mansion though not so much in the months since. Still saw the look of betrayal in their eyes, though; that look kept coming back to him at the oddest moments.

"Craig, are you alright? I seem to have lost you for a moment," the tinkling voice of sweet Melissa drew his attention back to what was real, her, the music and the laughing crowd around him.

"I'm fine, just one of those stray thoughts that come along, you know."

She laughed at him gently, "then I'm obviously not distracting you enough. Come on, I know someplace we can go that's much more private," and he followed her, and he didn't spare another thought to anything else except her and him and the night. When he looked down into her pale blue eyes afterwards, there was a shimmering and for just a moment her features seemed to change, become someone else's, then it was gone, and it was just Melissa, and somehow he was disappointed.

The scene shifted. He was in his office, preparing reports. The mission had been a bust, as had the last several. Men lost on each mission, men he'd barely had time to register their names, certainly hadn't had time to get to know as individuals. Soldiers, trying their best, but with only rudimentary knowledge of what they were supposed to be doing. University didn't teach you how to blow a safe; drilling didn't teach you how to pull a con. And while military training might improve your dexterity, teach you how to scale a building, it didn't teach you any of the fast-finger work, forgery, pickpocketing, any of that. The men had gotten along together, not given him any trouble, but they died as fast as they arrived, never forming any attachment between them, never learning to rely on each other. How many now? He was beginning to lose count. The military was ready to give up on the idea, at least with him. Funny, Ainsley and the other leaders made it work; why he couldn't, he just couldn't figure out.

He remembered the beginning, the missions that DID work, the team that made them work. Now, he didn't clearly remember the trouble they caused so much as the team they were. Somehow all that mischief seemed much more amusing in hindsight. Sometimes he wondered just what he'd been so upset about, what had caused him to make that decision. Something about pale blue eyes, Melissa, that other woman with those same eyes, something . . .

He'd gotten in late the night before, after having been gone for a full two weeks. The air rankled the hair on the back of his neck somehow, a bad smell lingering in the night breeze, but he was too tired to do more than just head in and fall into bed. The men had stayed behind in London on a twenty-four hour pass; he'd thought as he drifted into an uneasy sleep, {"at least I don't have to expect a call about some trouble they've gotten into; a pretty tame bunch, this set."}

It was morning now; he was at his desk, looking at what had accumulated during his absence when the morning correspondence was brought in by Sergeant Major Rawlins. Rawlins was withdrawn these days, doing his job certainly, but somehow no longer at, maybe on Garrison's side, not like he'd once been. Well, Rawlins had disapproved of him sending the men back, of course; odd, that had been, the regular army non-com pleading on their behalf. Now, this morning, Rawlins was even more stiff-lipped as he laid the reports down on the middle of the desk.

"Something, Sergeant Major?" Garrison snapped, getting a little tired of the 'I'll do my job but don't expect any pleasantries' he'd been subjected to ever since those departures.

"Reports, sir. Nothing important, just a follow-up to close out the files on your team. Your original team."

Garrison raised imperious eyebrows only to see Rawlins' eyes didn't meet his, were looking somewhere over his shoulder into space. Garrison's own lips thinned, "very well," and popped a salute dismissing the other man. Rawlins left, Garrison poured another cup of coffee and opened the reports. 

Two hours passed and Rawlins returned, reluctantly, to remind the young officer of his committment in London that evening. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't the blank-eyed man sitting in that chair, those reports still strewn across his desk.

Rawlins knew what was in those pages: Casino, dead, killed in a prison riot three weeks ago. Actor, missing for over a week now, supposed dead, in an attempt to escape from Alcatraz - Alcatraz, from which it was said no one ever escaped. Chief, dead, beaten to death almost a month ago under undetermined circumstances in the southern prison he'd been transferred to, no investigation other than rudimentary, no charges filed. Goniff, dead, bled out in the infirmary two weeks ago, injuries undisclosed; death termed 'death by misadventure', no investigation, no charges filed.

Rawlins had been expecting some reaction, but this frozen silent figure seated behind the desk took him by surprise. Thin fingers ran over each report restlessly, continuously, a quiet voice telling him what he already knew, "they're gone, Gil. Dead." That thin throat swallowed convulsively.

"Yes, sir." Any thought of adding a harsh "and what did you expect?" had died once the non-com caught a look at those stricken, disoriented green eyes.

"Casino, he saved my life, you know, in Geneva. Well, they each did, one time or another, and not just once." His voice got softer, telling one story after another, sometimes his eyes misting over.

"Do you remember the fights, Gil? All the craziness? The nights down at the Pub, that time I had to pay off that farmer for them playing rodeo with those sheep? Do you remember the museum, where we had to retrieve all the souvenirs they made off with? Hell, that snuffbox Goniff even made off with the second time? Do you remember . . ."

Rawlins was now seated in the chair opposite, sipping at that glass of whiskey, the match for the one he'd poured for the young man sitting behind the wooden desk. Finally, Garrison rose, went to stand at the window, staring out into nothingness. Then, his voice a little more centered in the here and now.

"Gil, that smoke . . . It looks like . . ."

Rawlins cleared his throat, his voice tight. "Yes sir, the Cottage. It's all pretty well died down, just the smoldering now, a good rain should finish it, then they'll clear the debris; well, it's been almost two weeks now."

The deathly pale face turned to the British non-com, knowledge mixed with dread, with a host of other things not so readily apparent, a harsh whisper, "Meghada?"

And the look on Rawlins' face was his answer, though he heard the soft, "they're calling it 'death by misadventure'".

Rawlins could barely hear the words then, so low were they, as they followed that choked sound, almost a sob, that came from deep in Garrison's throat, "she always said she'd follow him, find him if he got lost again, so he wouldn't be alone. She promised . . ."

Then those eyes again, green pools endlessly deep, "Gil, I failed them. I promised too, but I . . ."

Rawlins left then, leaving Garrison lost in his memories, the vision of familiar faces, of eyes staring at him with such sorrow, such a sense of hurt, betrayal - black, brown, gold-brown (really an odd shade of amber), and the most damning of all, those hazy pale blue ones.

Somehow, the single gunshot that rang out later, that wasn't as much of a surprise as Rawlins told his superiors. The report to HQ read, "death by misadventure". Somehow Sergeant Major Gil Rawlings found that particularly appropriate.^

Garrison awoke, shaking, bile rising in his throat. He lay there, finally rising and making his way quietly down the hall, stopping at the door to the Dorm. It took all his effort to reach out, turn that knob, find out the truth. It was early pre-dawn now, and they were awake, dressing for a go on the obstacle course. Actor alert and as well-groomed as the fatigues let him be, Casino surly and gruff with the morning, Chief perched in the window searching the sky. Goniff, the last to get going on even the best of mornings, perched on the side of his cot, rubbing his eyes. Faces turned to the door, facing their young officer. 

"Ei, Warden. Morning just seems to come earlier and earlier any more; maybe tomorrow we could 'ave a bit of a lay-in?"

And Garrison swallowed, hoping the dimness of the light would hide the mist that covered his vision, though nothing could hide the huskiness in his voice.

"Yeah, well, I don't see that happening, Goniff; Jerry doesn't seem disposed toward keeping bankers hours. Come on, let's get a move on; downstairs in fifteen," and he backed out of the room, closing the door behind him.

{"Just a nightmare, just another nightmare,"} shaking his head. He thought of the vision the young redhead had seen in the firelight, and knew she was right. The dreams, no, the nightmares, were tearing him apart. He wondered just how long he had til there was nothing left, not enough left to protect his men, not enough to prevent them all from being lost, leaving him alone with his failure, alone in his own personal darkness.

**

He'd called up to London, giving his 'regrets' for that social 'command performance' for that evening, to the displeasure of his superiors, but he pleaded the need to get in some extra training for that upcoming mission. Surprisingly, they let him get away with it. Yes, he DID need to work on those special plans, practice getting through those new defenses the Germans had come up with, but in reality, the thought of being on a dance floor, mingling with society, brought back too much of that nightmare; he got faintly sick to his stomach at the very thought, and turned his focus to what was needed to get them through that new, probably not-doable but ever so-necessary mission.

He was exhausted when he dropped into bed after a quick three-minute shower, just as exhausted as his men were. Actor had frowned at him as they said their good-nights, "Craig, are you alright? We could sit, have a drink, talk, if you like."

Garrison forced a smile, "no, nothing a good night's sleep won't take care of. I'll see you all in the morning," and went to his empty room down the hall. {"Maybe, just maybe I'm tired enough to sleep through. Please God, just let me sleep through! I am so tired!!"}

 

^It was a fine meal, Garrison thought, looking at that well-laden table with pleasure. {"Quite a change from rations, that's for sure,"} he thought to himself. And it wasn't as if he was here out of self-indulgence; no, he was here with the intention of conning his so-charming host out of the location of that munitions plant. So there was no reason to feel guilty.

Yes, he'd had to leave his team in a rather precarious situation, but sometimes that was necessary; they all understood that. There was many a time it had been him having to carry that burden, after all. In fact, when it came right down to it, it was him who had to carry pretty much ALL the burden - the responsibility for the mission, for them and their lives, for maintaining secrecy and training and all the rest.

It wasn't like they made it easy, either, with all their shenanigans. {"Sometimes it feels like I'm as much babysitter as team leader,"} he thought with some irritation as he made his choice from the platter held over his shoulder by the liveried attendant. His host smiled an understanding smile, "much better than what we are sometimes required to manage with, yes?" and the shared laugh felt oddly companionable.

Sometimes Garrison felt like a fish out of water; he couldn't be on a close basis with his men, his cons; as a leader of those cons, he couldn't really be on close terms with the other military men he might otherwise have expected to have as friends. His position as a guerilla leader kept him from making any female attachments, the only possibility to his mind being The Dragon, and she, inexplicably, had chosen the skinny pickpocket of Garrison's team to form a relationship with. Garrison told himself he didn't mind that, other than the questionability of any of them forming attachments considering how little each of them had to offer; he told himself he certainly didn't resent it, Goniff being chosen instead of himself. No, of course not. Though sometimes, he rather envied that warm look the little pickpocket gave the young woman, that smile Goniff seemed to keep just for her; he frowned to himself, {"that all seems rather backwards somehow; why am I not envying the looks she gives HIM, the smiles she sends HIS way? That would make more sense, surely!"} but then dismissed it from his mind. No, he needed to focus on the job at hand, his duty.

He'd been reassured his men were safe, well, reasonably safe. His host had laughed a little, "well, as safe as one can expect in wartime, eh, Lieutenant Garrison." That was odd; he didn't remember telling the man his rank or his name. Even more odd was the way the man's face kept shifting, one time looking a little like Major Kingston, other times like Colonel Pryor, then others he'd had run-in's with over his cons. He shook his head in frustration at the thought, turning his mind back to that excellent glass of wine.

"Well, I'll let you be getting back to your men, now. You can tell them about the fine dinner you had; unfortunately, one of which they were unable to partake. And speaking of partaking, I was rather surprised to discover just how wrong those rumors were about you and your men. Of course, I didn't have time for more than one sample, but while the blond one was certainly no innocent, it had obviously been quite some time; deliciously so, for my enjoyment." Garrison just looked his bewilderment, then his eyes widened and he gasped for breath.

"You said they'd be . . ."

"Yes, yes, I said they'd be safe, as safe as one can expect in wartime, I believe were my exact words. Well, wartime isn't particularly safe is it?" And the smile was serene, rather beautiful in fact, and Garrison thought for a moment he'd lose all of that fine dinner across the table. 

They were in adjoining cells, cold metal bars being the only separations. Casino, Chief, Actor in one, Goniff in the other. The looks in the three men's faces were identical as they looked at him - outrage, contempt, hate; certainly no trace of the trust, the respect and even affection they had once given Garrison.

Goniff, well there was no expression on his face, none at all, just a blankness reaching to the depths of those pale blue eyes. Obviously one of his host's minions had just finished his turn with the small man, still tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

"I think he's finished, Leo, think that last round was it," his host stated, looking at Goniff in an almost academic appraisal; "the others will be disappointed."

The burly man gave an amused hrummph, "wouldn't be surprised; not even a sound out of him, though he made noise enough the first few rounds," looking at Garrison with a grin. "Oh, well, there's always the others; perhaps the boy next?" nodding over to Chief.

"My dear Lieutenant, shall we stay and watch? I imagine he'll provide quite a show; seems rather fierce, you know."

Garrison just stood there, looking at that still body on the floor, breathing still, yes, just barely and obviously not for long; but those pale blue eyes - there was no life there, only emptiness, a dull film starting to settle over them. The bile surged into his throat, and now that fine dinner did come up, complete with blood, blood to match the pooled blood and assorted fluids surrounding his mischief-maker, his blue-eyed pickpocket laying there like an unimportant piece of discarded garbage.^

The clatter of something heavy and metallic being dropped, the sound of Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins' voice being raised in protest saved him from whatever was to follow. Garrison moved, sat up, and then dashed to the bathroom, ridding himself of anything in his stomach, more than he'd thought it could have held. Afterwards, he stayed there, shaking, kneeling, pressing his forehead against the cold cast iron of the sink.

Soon he'd make his way down the hall, look for the men, look into their eyes to see what was there, see what was real. Would Goniff be there, down the hall in the Dorm? {"Please God, let him be there, let him be safe and whole,"} and Lieutenant Craig Garrison knew he needed to steel himself to make a trip down to the Cottage, to ask for the help she'd held out to him. This couldn't continue, he knew that; sooner or later his nightmares would become reality if this continued, and he'd sooner die than have that happen. He'd certainly sooner give up those last remnants of his stubborn pride to prevent that from happening. But the day intervened with an impromptu visit from Major Kingston and his entourage, then a cluster of phone calls, and it was night time again, and again he prayed for sleep, sleep with no dreams. Well, at least no nightmares.

For a time it seemed as if his prayers had been answered. He'd awakened at 2am from a rather bewildering, certainly perplexing erotic dream that had visited him with increasing regularity, but aside from being rather embarrassing, considering the topic of the dream and his warm and eager blue-eyed companion in that dream, he wasn't too concerned. A trip to the john, then back to sleep, then . . . 

 

^He lay there, drenched in sweat, his head pounding, his heart beating so loudly it was like it was trying to escape from his chest; he wished it was from a recurrence of the malaria, but knew this time it wasn't. His body was taut and held firmly to that cot not by sickness but by tight bindings that prevented him from moving anything except his head. He could taste the bile in the back of his throat.

The ambush had been too clever, too well thought out, and he'd led his men right into it, discarding the advice of the Underground leader, discarding even his own intel on the matter. His own arrogance had caused their downfall, perhaps aided by his anger at their behavior, their attitude. Looking back, it hadn't been anything worthy of his anger, not really, just more of their usual irreverence at his lecture at some of their foolishness, but now, because he had lost control, now . . .

Now, Chief was gone, blown into tattered blood-drenched rags of flesh and cloth by the machine guns, what remained of the reserved young man left to rot on that dusty side road. Casino had been taken to the room next door; his curses, then his screams had echoed through the halls and in Garrison's mind, long after they had in actuality ceased, drifting into incoherent moans, then, finally, silence. Actor was still bound in ropes and cuffs at the side of the room, and their captors had just pulled Goniff to the center of the room, directly into Garrison's vision.

"You know what we are capable of, Lieutenant. You will tell us what we want to know, or you can watch what we will do to this one; it is entirely your choice. You will give in, you know, if not with him, then with the other one," jerking his head toward Actor, "or if you care so little for them, perhaps you will hold out until we start giving you our full attention."

A cold smile, matching those cold blue eyes, held Garrison's gaze, but the officer said nothing. He couldn't talk, he knew that; the information they were asking for, demanding, was too vital to the troops making their way forward through the lines; his talking would mean the deaths of hundreds if not more, and he couldn't, wouldn't do that. He knew his men were expendable, just as he was, and tried to convey that to the struggling man held so tightly in their grasp.

The hazy blue eyes that met his showed no understanding, though, only bewilderment and panic that Garrison was letting this happen, that Garrison hadn't somehow prevented this, stopped it. One man held each of the pickpocket's arms out and back, another braced behind him, hand firmly gripping that flaxen blond hair. Bancroft stroked one hand over Goniff's face, tracing the lines almost like he would have a lover's, gently, his eyes almost as gentle and loving. He looked back at Garrison, watching those green eyes looking so urgently into the pale blue ones, trying to communicate, seeing the blue ones reject all that was being said, protesting this triumph of duty over loyalty, over . . ..

Bancroft smiled, let his hand trail lower til it rested at the base of the slender blond's throat, then began to squeeze. Words came then, from Goniff, pleading, begging; oh, not of Bancroft, but of Garrison, now not 'Lieutenant' or 'Warden', but now 'Craig!' in increasing desperation, til the lack of air cut off all words, leaving only the struggle for breath, a hopeless struggle as Bancroft merely increased the pressure.

Garrison was raging now, inside and out, watching the struggle, watching the final comprehension in those blue eyes, the comprehension that Garrison wasn't going to save him, didn't care enough to save him, and Garrison was left with the knowing he'd betrayed someone he'd have given so much to have protected, should have protected, all for duty. Now, he couldn't even remember why that had been so important, couldn't think of anything except the fierce light gradually dimming, more and more, til there was only blankness in those blue eyes, til they let the limp lifeless body drop to the cold stones below them.

Something broke inside of him, then; no, it wouldn't make him talk, spill that information that they wanted so badly, but it would destroy him, what had just happened. He lifted his eyes from that crumpled body, found Bancroft smiling down at him. 

"Now, Lieutenant, you have only one man left. Shall you let him die as well?" Garrison looked at Actor, at the rank bitterness in the tall con man's eyes.

"Yes, he will; did you think he wouldn't?" and the bitterness in the man's face was nothing compared to the bitterness in that aristocratic voice. "He cares nothing for us; he has proved that quite well. I am not sure what he does care about; I sometimes have wondered if there is anything inside of him capable of caring, for anything other than his cold duty. Heaven knows he has rejected any softer, richer gifts that have come his way, all in that calling," came as a remarkably harsh judgement.

"Ah," muttered Bancroft, "in that case," as he drew his pistol and without hesitation put one shot between the tall Italian's eyes. He raised his brows at the stunned American officer, "well, there really was no reason to draw it out, now was there? And he convinced me, indeed they all have, that you will not talk. Therefore, I am releasing you. You are free, Lieutenant Garrison, you and your sense of duty; you have lost them, for whatever that matters to you, but at least you still have your own life, your freedom, your duty," and the others bundled the incredulous Garrison out of the room, into a waiting vehicle, to be deposited within a few hundred feet of the approaching Allied troops.

"Free . . ." Garrison whispered to himself, watching the dust of that jeep depart, turning to see the soldiers running to untie him, cluster around, asking him questions, his voice not answering them, only speaking to his own broken spirit. "Free . . . No, never, I'll never be free . . ." Unbidden tears came to his eyes as he remembered their faces, their ending - Chief, a bloody ruin on a dusty road; Casino, defiant to the end, his screams his legacy; Actor, his angry face showing his disgust, his disappointment; Goniff, the very life squeezed out of him, unbelieving, bewildered at the betrayal he obviously had felt. Well, why wouldn't he have? Wasn't that what happened, Garrison betraying them, abandoning them? ^

God, he was cold! He shivered in the darkness, feeling the air surround him. His hands fumbled in search of the covers, pulling them tightly around him, his mind trying to sort out dreams from reality, past from present, and he realized he couldn't do it, he truly didn't know, not at the moment. And he had to know, had to find out, now! Shaking, he swung his legs to the side of the bed, stood, reached for his clothes.

In the hallway, he paused at the doorway to the Dorm, hesitated, then, unable to help himself, eased that door open slightly to see the three forms stretched out on the cots, breathing deeply in sleep. That empty cot to the left of the fireplace . . .His breath caught in his throat, and he felt himself grow dizzy with the remembering.

{"Only three . . . Does that mean . . .?" }

A form stirred, caught sight of him, and rose to meet him. Actor used one gentle hand to turn him back to the hall, closing the door softly behind him. The tall con man frowned at the pale face of their leader, at the trace of residual nightmare in those green eyes. "Craig? Are you alright?"

Garrison licked his dry lips, met those understanding brown eyes, "Goniff? I don't remember . . ." and if Actor didn't understand all, he understood enough.

"He's at the Cottage with Meghada. Nightmares again, Craig? Perhaps you DO need to consider accepting her help, you know. You can't go on this way."

Garrison swallowed heavily and nodded, "yes, you might be right. But I can't go now . . ."

Actor smiled gently, "yes, you can, and yes, you should. She'll understand, is possibly expecting you, for all we know. She does seem to know things. Come, I'll drive you over."

They looked at each other for a minute, then Garrison nodded, and once Actor had retrieved more suitable clothes they made their way down to the door downstairs, then they were out and gone. 

On the silent drive back, Actor thought about their young leader, hoping Meghada would be able to help, wondering if having Goniff there at the Cottage tonight would help or hinder any of her efforts to bring surcease to Craig Garrison's troubled sleep.

Somehow, it always seemed to be Goniff that Craig came looking for after one of those nightmares, the one whose visible presence seemed to allow that residual tension to dissipate to a tolerable level; that seemed to point to their pickpocket as playing a major role in Garrison's nightmares, perhaps some special danger that seemed to threaten him more than the others. That seemed odd to Actor, as the Lieutenant didn't seem any more concerned about the man than any of the others during their missions, during training or any of their antics.

He shrugged; maybe he'd know the reason eventually, maybe not; maybe there wasn't even a reason, just the reality. In some ways, it was almost as inexplicable as Goniff's presence in that Cottage in the first place, the closeness between him and the redheaded contract agent known as the Dragon. Actor blinked rapidly, tilted his head in puzzlement. There'd been something there, a flicker of thought, of an idea, but, no, then it was gone again, too quickly for the tall Italian to get a good grasp on it. Sighing, he pulled the jeep through gates, nodding at the guard, then up to the circle drive and got out. He'd deal with the jeep in the morning; tonight, he was just too weary. 

Actor eased back into the Dorm, to hear a quiet voice asking, "he gonna be okay?"

Actor sighed, "I sincerely hope so, Chief. I believe she can help; I certainly hope so. He is breaking apart, day by day."

"More night by night," came from Casino. "Sheesh, those nightmares must be somethin else! We all get em, I know, but his seem to drag on til the next evening, then it all starts all over again. I wonder just what goes on, what he sees," the safe cracker whispered, as he stared at the ceiling.

"I do not know, but I know they involve us, failing us somehow, perhaps betraying us."

Casino protested, "that dont make no sense! He's got our back, here and over there; hell, he's proved that!"

Chief sighed, "nightmares dont care about truth, Casino, you know that. Legend says those that bring the nightmares, they look inside to see what scares you the most; then use that to make your worst fears come true in your sleep."

On that very uncomfortable thought, they drifted uneasily back to sleep, hoping their young officer would be able to find some peace at the small cottage on the edge of the village.


	8. "I Failed Them, And They Are Lost"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares and dreams - Craig Garrison finally comes to the realization that he has to have help in dealing with them before he puts the entire team at risk. And if that requires some truths being spoken that he'd never thought to speak out loud, well, sometimes that's necessary. A gift given is returned, and a journey too-long delayed is begun, while Meghad once again chuckles over Goniff's one-time goal of a 'simple, uncomplicated life'.

Shaking her head, she walked over, the path cold under her bare feet. "You'll catch a chill sitting out here, come into the kitchen," she urged in a whisper. He looked up as if from deep in thought, and then over at the cottage, questioningly. "Yes, he's there, he's asleep. We can sit in the kitchen and talk quietly for a bit, Craig. Come along now."

Inside she got out the bottle of bourbon and two glasses, hesitated, then reached back in for the third; Goniff was a light sleeper, he'd hear even their softest voices before long. {"Might as well have it close at hand; hope he gives Craig enough time to relax and talk thru things a bit first though."} She poured a glass for her guest and herself, leaving the other glass in the shadows by the bottle. "So, what brings you this way? Trouble sleeping?"

He said nothing for a long time, then, "do you have anything that works against nightmares, against dreams?", knowing of her expertise in herbcraft and remedies.

{"Ah, so he had listened and paid heed. Good! I was afraid he'd wait til they ripped him apart, those nightmares of his."}

While everyone had nightmares, she knew enough about his history to know he had carried more burdens with him than many, even before their Missions had started; as for those the Missions had added, she remembered her own Missions, and the nightmares they brought with them. For him, in a command position, they must be even worse, since he had his men, his sister to care for and protect as well as himself. 

"Against nightmares, yes; dreams, those are another story entirely. I have things that can help lessen the impact of a nightmare, make it easier to distinguish nightmare from reality. I'll gather the herbs in the morning. Also, there is a technique that allows you to step in and change the ultimate outcome of a nightmare, to alter the events, make them less powerful, less damning. That can be learned; I taught the guys, I can teach you. We can start tomorrow if you like." She paused. "Have they gotten worse recently?"

"Yes," he whispered, staring down at the glass in his hands, "much worse. They keep dying. Goniff, Chief mainly. Sometimes Casino. Actor, not so often, but often enough. Lynn, one minute she's there with us, next she's not, and we don't know where she went or how, she's just gone. And it's always my fault. I said the wrong thing and gave us away, I gave them the wrong directions and they got caught. Sometimes, I can see what's happening, and I have plenty of time to save them, but I freeze, just stand there helpless while it happens."

His voice got even more hoarse. "Once, I was angry with them, I don't know why. They were in front of me on the road, and I saw the enemy ambush ahead, and . . . ".

"And?" she asked quietly.

"And I did nothing, I knew what was going to happen, but I was angry, and so I just stood back and watched. The shooting started, and then they were all dead. They lay there, bloody, broken, their eyes staring at me, asking me "Why?" He looked up at her with stricken eyes, "I just stood there and watched."

He paused, as if afraid to continue, "and the past couple of nights, tonight . . ." He stuttered out a broken rendition of his nightmares that had awakened him, shaking as he remembered. Her heart ached for him; she'd been mostly an independent agent, never liked the responsibility of even working with a team, taking responsibility for other people's lives; she couldn't imagine what it must be like leading his team out into danger, again and again, turning around and having to fight for their wellbeing and safety even here at home, knowing if he failed, they'd go back to prison, perhaps die there. She rose, and walked around behind him, folding her arms around his shoulders, leaning her head against his, as he shuddered. 

"And the dreams?" she asked as she held him close.

"What?" he said, as if she had brought him out of a deep sleep.

"You described the nightmares. You said your dreams were also bothering you. What are the dreams?"

He drew away sharply. "Nothing, just the nightmares, that's what I meant."

"Craig, I've four brothers, I can spot a lie like that a mile away," she told him sternly.

He stared up at her, then dropped his head, and in a low and tormented voice, told her of his recurring dream, of loving and sweet passion, of looking down into pale blue eyes they both knew so well. "Goniff would hate me if he knew. I can't be dreaming these things, I have to stop dreaming about someone I shouldn't want, someone I can't have," he told her in a low, painful rush.

"Am I interrupting? I 'eard my name mentioned; seems if I'm part of the discussion, I should probably be in the room," Goniff said in a tight voice from where he leaned against the bedroom doorway. He was clad only in his khaki pants, top and feet bare, arms folded tensely across his chest. He was short and slender, true, but wiry, not soft; his body was well defined, strong. He rarely looked dangerous, but now he did; his face was hard, cold.

It was obvious to Meghada that he was misreading the situation, but this was his territory now, as well as hers, and no matter how innately good natured he was, he couldn't be expected to welcome an interloper, especially one with her arms wrapped around his shoulders in the middle of the night. {"Well enough, now just to let him see that Craig isn't that; this could be just what we all need, the right opportunity to shake things down in better order."}

"Come, love, we need you."

She stepped back to the table, poured him a drink, holding it out to him, refilling her glass and Craig's as well. As Goniff reluctantly came to take the glass with a wary frown on his face, she gently urged him into the chair next to Craig, giving him a small reassuring kiss on the cheek as she did so, brushing her head caressingly against his.

"He's having nightmares, nightmares and dreams, love, and you and the others figure into them. That's what the foreseeing was about. It all got a bit too much for him tonight; he came for help."

She knew Goniff cared deeply for Garrison, as a leader, a friend, and in some ways he had perhaps not yet fully come to terms with himself, and with that explanation, she brought Goniff firmly round to his side. The slight Engishman was the mother hen of the group, always anxious for their well being, the first to offer comfort and encouragement. The dangerous man was gone now, as if he had never been, though she knew he was still there deep inside, should the need arise.

He said earnestly, "Warden, we all get 'em, you know, specially after a bad Mission, and that last one, well it ruddy well qualified. You wanna tell me what's in yours?"

Garrison looked over at him with eyes filled with misery. "You die, sometimes you and Chief, sometimes the others too; Lynn just disappears, and I caused it; I always cause it; I fail, and because I fail, you all die! And you die knowing I failed you, betrayed you and your trust."

Compassion filled the Englishman's face; he, like Meghada, had always avoided a position of responsibility, not wanting others to be depending on him for their safety, though it had been thrust upon him on a few very uncomfortable occasions. He tried not to think back on those times, himself, even though he'd acquitted himself well enough, but Garrison had always seemed to handle it all without hesitation.

"Warden, that's nasty, sure enough, but it's a nightmare, it ain't real. You'd never fail us, not on purpose, and we all know it's a risk going out there, that there ain't any guarantees. And you're always there with us trying to make sure we get the job done and get back safe. Ain't one of us don't know that."

Craig just sat, looking blankly down at his glass again, taking a sip and shuddering. Goniff looked over at Meghada urgently, clearly saying, {"What do I do now?"}

{"Maybe it's time to change his focus from his nightmares to something potentially more pleasant."}

"Craig was also telling me of his dreams, how you'd be angry with him about them."

"Angry with 'im about 'is dreams? Why ever would I be?"

"Because he thinks you'd think it was wrong he was dreaming about someone you'd think he shouldn't be dreaming about, wanting someone you'd think he shouldn't want," she explained, ignoring Craig's harsh intake of breath, wide eyed, aghast face.

Goniff arched his eyebrows at her, and silently tipped his forehead toward her, with an obvious question in his eyes, {"You?"} She smiled gently at him, shaking her head slightly, and then tapping her finger on his forearm. As his eyes opened wide, she tipped her head toward Craig, giving Goniff a tiny shooing motion with her fingers.

Goniff paused, not even consciously making his decision, his focus solely on this man he'd come to care about, to love, so deeply, then moved his chair up close to face the side of Garrison's. His voice had deepened as he tilted his head to look into the face of his leader, his friend.

"You gave me something, back at that merc camp, think it's 'igh time I returned it," he said. With that, he tipped Craig's chin and leaned forward, gently kissed him, soft, long, stopping only enough to back away a couple of inches, then move forward and start again. When Craig drew in his breath quickly, Goniff deepened the kiss, stroking Craig's lips with the tip of his tongue til those lips opened for him.

Meghada watched with calm satisfaction; this was progressing better than she'd thought. Goniff had sure instincts, of knowing what was the right time for just the right move, she knew from their own relationship, but she didn't know how much experience either of them had with being with another man, (voluntarily, anyway, though she knew both had experienced the other); it wasn't something she and her lover had ever discussed, so she'd had some trepidation about their progress. Their feelings for each other were real, so maybe this would flow smoothly; she hoped so for both their sakes, for them and for the team.

She couldn't imagine how they'd managed this far, how the team was still oblivious; to her it had been so apparent for some time now, the two of them a spirit-bonded pair, Ta-Ket, just as she and Goniff were. Well, such was hardly unusual in her family, two Ta-Ket bondings, forming the Ta-Duan. And it was certainly better for them to start here, in a more controlled, private setting than anywhere else, with the possibility of interruption and embarrassment.

And she knew she was lucky; she was fond of Craig, liked and respected him, and she knew he felt the same about her; they should rub along together well enough, both of them wanting what was best for the man who had captured both their hearts. Inside she had to chuckle, {"and, with him and his thinking he wanted a simple uncomplicated life, he did it all without even trying!"}

Craig shifted in his chair, in response to the hand moving down his center, and lightly cupping him. As the hand, no, he corrected himself, as Goniff's hand lightly stroked and caressed him, he found himself moaning softly, arching upward, breathing more heavily. With a final light kiss, the Englishman urged him up out of chair, and toward the door to the bedroom. 

"There's a more likely spot for this than on a couple of 'ard wooden chairs," and Craig let himself be guided through the doorway to sit, then lay on the twisted covers of the bed. The soft smile on the familiar face looking down at him was all he could have hoped for, so much like what he'd seen in his dreams, and he found himself smiling back, echo'ing the warmth, the caring he was seeing in Goniff's face. As their pickpocket, HIS pickpocket settled down alongside, Garrison knew there'd be no nightmares, not tonight. As for dreams, well, he had no need for dreams, not when he had the reality.

In the kitchen, Meghada stood looking at that bedroom door for a moment, smiling with affection. Then she shook herself briskly, {"best be thinking about setting up that extra private space; seems we'll be needing it for sure,"} and she picked up her pad and pencil and settled herself into one of the big chairs in the sitting room to ponder the possibilities.

{"And I might as well start thinking about breakfast; Goniff always wakes up hungry, and I imagine Craig will as well. Let's see . . . "}


	9. Comes The Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of the darkness comes the dawn, and a bright and shining dawn it is indeed.

He rolled over, stretching luxuriously, running his fingers through his rumpled blond hair, feeling better than he could remember having felt in perhaps forever. {"A night without nightmares can make a world of difference! I KNEW I just needed a good night's sleep!"} He debated about just going back to sleep, but his body firmly told him he at least needed to make a pit stop before he made up his mind about that. He didn't bother to open his eyes, figuring to do that when he had to, but not before.

His progress toward the side of the comfortable bed was stopped suddenly when he rolled into that warm body. Correction - that warm totally naked body. He wasn't expecting that, having worked diligently at convincing his groin it was MIA for the duration; he tried to remember just where, perhaps who . . . and then he inhaled sharply. Not just a warm, totally naked body - a warm, totally naked MALE body; to be precise, his pickpocket, the subject of his recent vivid and extremely heated dreams, his inexplicable slowly-growing obsession. He opened his eyes almost reluctantly, hesitant to replace warm fantasy with cold reality, meeting a hazy blue gaze, one filled with even more apprehension than Craig Garrison was feeling right now. The voice was raspy, as usual, though the greeting was new.

"C-c-c-raig, Gaida's making coffee, thinking about getting breakfast together," came out a little shyly, "want first turn at the shower?"

Garrison blinked, thinking desperately of something, anything to say, as the memories of last night came flooding back. Somehow, although he didn't have a clue of what to say, it seems he knew what to do. One hand reached out to brush that flaxen blond hair back, one finger trailed over that wide mouth, and he found his own mouth relaxing into a genuine smile, one now echo'd on that well-known, endearing face.

"Yes, please, Goniff, and good morning," and that smile became a grin, "and a ruddy good morning it is too!" Somehow they found themselves chuckling, then laughing as the reality, something unexpected for both men, caught up with them.

There would be time later for questions, worry, concerns, Garrison knew; he half expected there might be some regrets all around, but he wasn't so sure about that, at least on his part. Complications, yes, of course; he could already partially list the complications inherent in this new direction his life had taken. In fact, as he took his shower, he wondered at himself; he'd purposefully avoided female entanglements since he'd started this assignment, denying himself even casual encounters, just because of all the possible complications. Now, he had landed himself in the mother of all complicated situations.

He, who'd never even thought of men in that way, not before Goniff, now had embarked on something, something intense and serious, though he wasn't sure what to call it. Whatever it was, it carried so many taboos as to make the whole situation ludicrous. He, an officer in the United States Army, graduate of West Point, serving during war time in a highly classified position, involved, sleeping with, hell, having sex (at least by some definitions) with another man, a man assigned to him as part of a highly unusual team; a man he'd be living with, but having to keep apart from as far as anyone else knew; a man he'd be leading on dangerous assignments; holy hell, a man already involved in an affair with the young woman currently making coffee and breakfast in the other room.

Craig didn't know whether he wanted to bang his head against the shower wall in sheer frustration at the situation he found himself in, or laugh at the sheer impossible, ridiculously joyful mood he found himself in. He finished, dried off, and wearing that towel securely wrapped around his waist, moved back into the bedroom. Casting an involuntary but appreciative grin at the wiry blond perched like an unashamed tailor's elf in the center of the bed wearing a broad perky grin of his own, although nothing else, Garrison started picking up his clothes from where they'd been left scattered, letting his eyes follow that lithe body that untangled itself and moved past him, wanting to reach out and stroke those sleek lines once more.

The chuckle from the doorway stopped him, and he turned to see an obviously amused Meghada O'Donnell, complete with apron at her waist and dish towel in her hand - hardly a picture of the Dragon most of HQ Special Forces would have recognized at first glance. If he'd thought there would be any discomfort in this first meeting, he was mistaken; somehow, neither he nor she seemed to feel the need for such.

"And are you well this morning, Craig?" seeming content with his blush and nod.

"I'll gather the herbs we talked about as soon as the sun dries the dew from them, and we can talk about some tools for dealing with your nightmares. Seems your dreams have already been sorted out, yes?" watching with deep pleasure that blush that colored his cheeks, the warm ageement in his bright green eyes.

"It will take me about twenty minutes once you tell me you're ready for me to start fixing breakfast; biscuits are done but they will hold in the warming oven well enough. Just give me the word, yes?"

He looked at her, puzzled, "Goniff should be finished in the shower any minute," wondering why she was delaying.

Then he saw her glance toward the bathroom door, back to him and that towel with the revealing tent in the front, a wide grin forming, "yes, well, there's no hurry, is there? Tis a fine morning for taking your time about getting started with your day," laughing softly, backing out and closing the door after her.

His jaw dropped, then a rueful laugh burst forth, so that the face Goniff saw when he bounced out of the bathroom with a towel slung haphazardly around him, brushing his damp flaxen hair back out of his face was one full of amusement, gradually turning to one of something quite different.

It was a good forty minutes or so before Garrison let out a lazy contented call, "I think you might start that breakfast now, Meghada," followed by a spritely, "that sounds like a lovely idea; do we 'ave any of that cherry jam left, 'Gaida? That'd go down nicely with those biscuits you said you were making! And did you say something about omelettes? Or did you decide on poached? Either would be fine, you know! And maybe. . ."

That was met by a laugh from the next room, "and maybe whatever else I can find to fill that empty pit of a stomach of yours, yes, I know! Twenty minutes, the two of you, and at the table, if you don't mind! I'm not providing room service! Those sheets tell enough of a tale without adding cherry jam and melted butter and biscuit crumbs and all else! Mrs. Wilson's already going to have raised eyebrows; luckily she's never been one for gossiping! She'll not say a word, but I start adding fruit jam into the mix, I'll be getting a lecture about eating in bed for certain, wanting me to promise for it not to happen again. And we'd not want that, eh? Oh, and clothes might be best, just in case someone drops something," she told them with sly mischief, listening with deep pleasure to the chokes and laughs from the next room.

And if both of them were more than a little pink-faced when they emerged for that 'whatever I can find' breakfast, both still casting shy glances at one another and exchanging little chuckles, well, she'd been expecting that, as much as she'd been expecting that little exclamation of delight from her own laddie when he spotted that table complete with biscuits and jam, poached eggs and fried potatoes with peppers, with a broiled tomato, onion and cheese tartine to add savor.

Well, on her part, she was savoring that shy one-armed hug and kiss to the cheek she'd gotten from Craig Garrison, the more robust full-bodied hug and warm and quite thorough kiss she'd gotten from Goniff. She watched them devour what she placed in front of them, and mentally inventoried the pantry; this was pretty much a week's food, no, more than that, for her; she'd still come out alright at month's end, with a little skimping, but that was only if this was not repeated, and she was sure that would not be the case. Ah, well, she'd just have to work on adjusting the food supply, maybe make an order with Ian for his next trip, certainly plant another section of the garden with some of the quicker growing things; in the meantime, she'd check her books again for appetizing things she could bring to the table from the winter stores she had on hand. She shrugged, knowing that was something she could deal with, something well worth dealing with for the contented looks on their faces.

Yes, it all had to be discussed, and was, over some of that spoon-melting coffee she made, and Garrison was more than a little relieved to realize both Goniff and Meghada were well aware of the difficulties, and the need for absolute discretion. He could also tell that if he'd told them this couldn't happen again, that it had all been a mistake, they would have reluctantly accepted it, for his own good, knowing the danger to his career. He could also tell they didn't want that, either of them, didn't want this to be a one-time thing; well, neither did he, and he was a little surprised at how firmly, how resolutely he knew that.

It wouldn't be easy, it would certainly be risky, but somehow, he thought it would be perhaps one of the most worthwhile things in his life, along with guiding and protecting that team of wild cards he'd come to hold in such esteem and affection.

"So, elsewhere, it's much as it always was, yes. But here, Craig, this is a separate world, one I've taken considerable effort to build as a sanctuary, a place few others come; a world I invite you to share."

And those words, the memory of last night and this morning, all of that together would become a lodestone for the young officer, a safe haven and respite during the trying times to come, a promise of what just might BE possible if they all survived this war. He wouldn't bet on that, of course; every mission could be their last, and even here in England life was a risky business, but it was something to help get him through those long cold nights when he didn't have his pickpocket to pull up close to him to provide warmth and comfort.


End file.
